


God Knows I Tried

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: And Dutch is kind of an idiot, Angst, Arthur Whump, Arthur jumps to conclusions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, Young Arthur, Young Dutch, hurt Arthur, young hosea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: In a desperate attempt to prove his worth, a promising stagecoach robbery goes wrong. In the aftermath of the disaster, Arthur severely misunderstands the extent of Dutch's anger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TumbleSnout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TumbleSnout/gifts).



The chest was empty. 

Men coming from every direction, bullets whizzing past his head, and there wasn’t even anything in the damn lockbox. 

Arthur should have known it was too good to be true- especially with how poorly his luck tended to be- the intel odd and untrustworthy from the beginning, picked up from some overly cocky rancher in the nearest saloon. 

Dutch had warned him against it from the beginning, frown deepening as Arthur spoke, following the older man to where the horses were hitched outside their small camp. 

“No.” 

_ “No?”  _ Arthur had stupidly pressed. “Dutch, it’s an easy job.” 

“It’s an unguarded stagecoach carrying a chest full of cash,” Dutch said. “That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?” 

Arthur flinched at the cold tone, once so foreign and unfamiliar, now seeming to be used more and more the past couple weeks, tension rising no matter how hard he tried to keep the air light. 

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of an eerily quiet camp, of sidelong glances to the empty patch of dirt where Hosea’s bedroll was supposed to be. 

It wasn’t the first time the three of them had split up. Hosea often took solo jobs, riding off for days or weeks at a time, always returning with a smile and a new story. 

It was different this time. It was the first time Arthur wasn’t sure if Hosea was coming back. 

He’d left with Bessie, promising, as he always did, to return within a few weeks, to stay safe, insisting he wouldn’t be able to stay away for long. 

And Arthur understood. Hosea had, by some miracle, gotten Bessie to stay with him despite everything they’d been through, despite the way he’d decided to live. 

He had a taste of a real, normal life. A safe life. Arthur didn’t blame him for wanting to experience what it felt like, even if only temporarily. 

He wouldn’t blame Hosea if he ran and never looked back. 

_ “You won’t even know I’m gone,”  _ Hosea had told him.  _ “Keep an eye on old Dutch for me, will you?”  _

Arthur had  _ tried-  _ over four years had given him more than enough time to see how much Dutch and Hosea needed each other- but Hosea’s absence hit him harder than he’d thought it would. 

The missing presence at the campfire, the uncertainty of the older man’s return, all of it had weighed him down, clouded his mind, leaving him useless and quiet. 

Dutch had made more than one comment on his apparent laziness, on their dwindling supply of food and cash. With one pair of hands gone, the two of them needed to be working harder than ever. 

And when Arthur had finally brought Dutch what he’d asked for, he’d been shot down. 

“It ain’t worth the risk,” he said, unhitching his horse. “Find us something else. I’m heading into town for dinner, because apparently you can’t be bothered to go hunting.” 

During Hosea’s prolonged absences, Dutch often grew cold and distant, the stress of the other man’s safety adding to the rest of his problems. It wasn’t uncommon, but it had rarely gotten this bad. 

“I was--” 

“You were out  _ drinking,”  _ Dutch snapped. “And you came back with unreliable information that could get us both killed.” 

“I’m...I’m sorry, I--” 

“Find us something else, Arthur.” He mounted his horse, turning towards the road. “You need to be pulling your weight.” 

He didn’t give Arthur another chance to argue, spurring his horse forward and disappearing through the brush without another word. 

Arthur wasn’t sure what had come over him, left alone in the heavy air of the silent camp. Maybe his anger had overpowered his hurt, or maybe a part of him had figured he’d already made so many stupid decisions, there couldn’t be any harm in making one more.

Nobody should ever rob a stagecoach alone, guarded or not. It was one of the first lessons Dutch and Hosea had drilled into him, long before they’d deemed him old enough to accompany them on a real job. 

Arthur should have known better by now. Nothing ever went the way he planned, and the universe had always been determined to send him to an early grave. 

It had been a set-up. Of  _ course,  _ it had been a set-up. Dutch wouldn’t turn down an opportunity like this without good reason, and he wouldn’t have survived this long if he didn’t know what he was talking about. 

Any other time, Arthur might have listened without question. If Dutch had simply taken a moment to explain, if things hadn’t been so tense, if he hadn’t felt so useless. 

But he’d gone in anyway, too quick and too cocky. The driver had been heavily armed, firing as soon as he’d scrambled up from the ground, Arthur already taking the reins and tearing across the field. 

He’d dismounted to check the lock box as soon as the clearing had quieted, frustration fading in favor of confusion when he’d found the chest unlocked and empty. 

And then he’d heard horses, shouts and threats echoing through the air, Arthur’s heart sinking when he caught a glimpse of four men riding towards him, crashing through the trees. 

He clambered back onto the carriage, fumbling with the reins in suddenly unsteady hands, pushing the terrified horses forward just as gunfire broke out. 

“You know what happens to thieves, boy?” someone screamed from behind him.

More gunshots rang out before another man called, “Come quietly and nobody has to die!” 

Nobody would die until they hanged him. It had been a trap set by the law, a fake stagecoach to attract any thief stupid enough to try robbing it, and Arthur had played his role perfectly. 

Yanking his gun from its holster, Arthur risked turning around to fire twice at the approaching lawmen, only managing to down one before being forced to turn back around and focus on the road ahead. 

He wouldn’t be able to outrun them, and he couldn’t keep dodging bullets forever. One of the men would hit their target eventually, and one lucky shot was all it took to take him down.

His own horse was nowhere in sight, the animal having bolted the moment it heard gunshots. Jumping from the wagon to his saddle was destined to get him shot, but it had been his only chance at veering into the trees and losing his pursuers. 

And even before he’d shot down one of their men, surrendering had been out of the question. 

The shooting never stopped, and Arthur hadn’t even begun to fully process how truly fucked he really was, when the ground suddenly dipped beneath him, the horses screaming in terror as the stagecoach tipped forward. 

He heard the splitting of wood and the breaking of bones as the horses fell over themselves, struggling and thrashing in the dirt while the carriage was knocked over on its side, sending Arthur flying into the dirt. 

Pain tore through his bones, leaving him breathless and gasping, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he fought to clear his head. 

He dug his nails into the ground, dragging himself forward, silently willing one of the horses to stand up again. 

Neither of them were given the chance. Two hollow gunshots pierced through the air, each of the horses letting out one last pained scream, kicking out against the pain as they bled into the dirt, gradually stilling as their heads sank to the floor. 

Arthur heard boots hit the ground, men dismounting, talking around him, voices coming closer and closer. 

All reason drowned out by panic, he started to pull himself forward, only managing to make it a few inches before something slammed against his back, the heel of a boot digging painfully into his spine. 

“Where do you think you’re going, cowboy?” 

Hands clamped around his ankles, yanking as the boot finally lifted, pulling and dragging him through the dirt until someone grabbed the back of his jacket, throwing him forward, leaving him to lay on the side of the road. 

“Get on your knees.” 

Arthur did as he was told, ignoring the pain and keeping his eyes on the ground as he pushed himself up, a steady hand on his shoulder keeping him from finding his footing.

His gun was ripped from his belt before he could even come up with a way to reach for it in time, as was his hunting knife, leaving him defenseless and trembling against his will. 

“Show him what he did.” 

Refusing to look up, Arthur could only listen as the men moved around him, grumbling under their breaths as something heavy was dropped in front of him. 

“Look at him, boy.” Someone grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing him to raise his head and stare at the dead body placed before him, two bullet holes lodged deep in his chest. 

Arthur took a breath, adrenaline the only thing granting him the courage to speak. “I think he’s dead, mister.” 

The hand released its hold, the man moving to stand in front of the body, meeting Arthur’s defiant gaze with cold, steely eyes. 

“That was my brother you shot.” 

“Oh.” Arthur hated the words before they even left his mouth, but it was the only weapon he had against his own fear. “Well, I’m sure you’ll see him again soon.” 

The man gave him no warning before he kicked out, boot slamming into Arthur’s jaw, sending him crashing back to the dirt with a groan he couldn’t control. 

“Get up,” the man spat, like Arthur had fallen on his own accord. “Someone get him back up.” 

Another man hooked his arms under Arthur’s shoulders, roughly shoving him back to his knees, ignoring the way he hissed in pain, hunched and waiting for another blow. 

He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes, ignoring the blood sliding from his lip, the deep ache settling in his jaw. The man’s eyes were traveling over his body, stopping as they locked onto his side. 

“What?” Arthur demanded, tensing when the man stepped forward. “Are you arresting me or not?” 

The man reached forward, using the barrel of his gun to peel back Arthur’s jacket, smirking when cloth clung to his skin. Arthur’s eyes flickered down, stomach dropping when he saw his shirt was stained a deep red. 

The pain hit all at once, sharp and piercing, dragging out a panicked, agonized cry, almost able to feel the bullet sinking deeper and deeper, killing him slowly. 

“Looks like you’ll be seeing him sooner than I will,” the man mused, pulling his gun away and letting the jacket once again cover up the wound. “Better luck next time.”

A second man moved up to stand beside the first, regarding Arthur like a decomposing animal found on the side of the road. 

“You sure this is the right one?” The second man’s hand was on his face, squeezing tight enough to bruise. Arthur tried to pull away, freezing when he heard the click of a pistol, raising his hands to let the man turn and study his face. “Ain’t even a man yet. Just some...some  _ kid.”  _

“It’s him,” the first man assured, his friend finally pulling away. “Ain’t that right, Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur froze, pain momentarily forgotten. These weren’t lawmen, these were bounty hunters. The trap had been meant for him since the beginning. 

“How old are you?” The man asked, frowning when Arthur stayed quiet. “Answer me, boy.” 

“Seventeen.” 

“Seventeen.” The man sighed, slowly dropping to a crouch. “Look, kid, I don’t know what lies you’ve been fed, but Van der Linde’s the one we’re after. Tell us where he is, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you to a doctor.” 

Arthur didn’t even give himself a second to consider. “Fuck you.” 

“Van der Linde ain’t a good man,” he argued. “And he ain’t your damn father. He’ll throw you to the dirt the minute he’s done with you. Or he’ll kill you himself. Tell me where he is and--” 

“I said  _ fuck you.” _

The man sighed again, running a hand over his face, nodding slowly as he rose to his feet. He looked to his remaining men, then back to Arthur. 

“Alright, then. Hold him down.” 

Arthur wasn’t given a chance to protest, hands grabbing him from every direction, wrestling him onto the ground, keeping him on his back. He couldn’t fight back without worsening the screaming pain in his side, crying out when someone pushed up against the bleeding wound. 

Something cold and metallic pressed against his skin and Arthur’s eyes widened, breathing growing quick and panicked. Figures loomed above him, blocking his view of the sky, blinding him of everything but the gun held to his forehead. 

There was a shot, loud and piercing, but there was no additional pain, no wave of darkness rushing to approach him, no release of death.

There was only the feel of the gun leaving his skin, quickly followed by the men’s hold, Arthur wincing as shouts rose up around him, followed immediately by more gunfire. 

When it was finally quiet again, the bounty hunters were sprawled across the ground, weapons strewn through the dirt, and Arthur, breathing out a shaky sigh of relief, looked up to see Dutch dismounting on the other side of the road. 

_ “Arthur!”  _

The relief vanished in an instant, hearing the anger in Dutch’s voice, remembering all at once what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

“Dutch--” 

“What in the  _ hell  _ is  _ wrong  _ with you?” He was stalking forward, pausing a few feet away. “Are you hurt?” 

Arthur swallowed, still working on sitting up, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side. But his jacket was keeping it hidden, and he knew the wound would only add to Dutch’s stress. 

He shook his head, resolving to patch himself up when they were back at camp. If it was deeper than he thought, he could ask Dutch for help when the man was in a better mood. 

“What did I say?” Dutch challenged, taking another step forward as Arthur worked on standing. “What did I goddamn say?” 

Arthur pulled himself to his feet, struggling not to cry out as he straightened. “That we weren’t robbing the stagecoach.” 

“And?” 

“And  _ we  _ didn’t. I did.” 

“You certainly did,” Dutch agreed. “How’d that go?” 

Arthur pulled his gaze away to glance at the dead men around him, looking over his shoulder to the destroyed carriage, trying not to grimace at the thought of the bullet in his side. 

“It was a trap.” 

“Of  _ course  _ it was a trap!” He snapped. “I told you it wasn’t right, and you  _ chose  _ to ignore me. Even if it wasn’t a trap, why the hell would you think I would let you go alone?” 

“I thought--” 

“No you didn’t,” Dutch said. “You didn’t think, Arthur. You  _ never  _ think.”

It was like a punch to the gut, chest aching at the pointlessly cruel words, legs threatening to give out beneath him. It might have simply been the blood loss. 

“They knew who I was,” Arthur said, flinching at the fury in Dutch’s eyes. “They were...they were looking for you, Dutch.” 

Dutch was staring at him, wordlessly raising his brow, and Arthur’s eyes widened when he recognized the silent question. 

“I didn’t tell them anything,” he promised, pain flaring as he stepped closer. “I wouldn’t Dutch, I swear I didn’t--” 

“I  _ know  _ you wouldn’t,” Dutch snarled, somehow more angry than before. “But it doesn’t matter. They found  _ you.  _ That’s all they need to track me down whether you talk or not.” 

“I--” 

“What did you get out of this?” Dutch asked. “Was there anything in the fake stagecoach you were so insistent on stealing?” 

Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, breathing growing too quick and shallow, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. “There’s nothing in the--” 

_ “Nothing,” _ Dutch repeated, loud enough to attract every lawman in the state. “They were going to  _ kill  _ you, Arthur. For  _ nothing.”  _

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t speak. He wasn’t even sure he could if he wanted to. 

“There was a gun to your  _ fucking  _ head! One second...if I had taken just one more damn  _ second  _ they would have...you’d be--you…”

He finally stopped, breaking off with a hand pressed to his mouth, turning away to watch the thankfully silent road. 

Arthur watched him, tense and waiting for more, his trembling having only worsened since his rescue. He’d seen Dutch angry, but never anything like this. Not at him. 

“Sometimes I think you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” 

Arthur froze, suddenly forgetting how to breathe, throat closing up in his terror, taking a cautious step towards the other man. 

“Dutch, I’m--” 

“Get out of here, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice had quieted, but he was still visibly furious, threatening. “Go on. Before someone sees you.” 

Arthur’s head was spinning, dread sinking deeper, fear somehow worse than when he’d had a gun to his head. Of course, he’d expected anger. He’d deliberately disobeyed and had nothing to show for it, his arrogance nearly leading to Dutch’s capture, Arthur too weak to fight back and stop the men. 

But  _ this?  _ It had been a mistake. One stupid, nearly fatal mistake, but he’d never thought Dutch would…

The bounty hunters words came back to him in a flash, echoing in his ears, cold and cruel.  _ He’ll throw you to the dirt the minute he’s done with you. _

Arthur found his gaze traveling down to where Dutch still held his gun at his side, icy fear coating his heart.  _ Or he’ll kill you himself. _

Arthur shook his head, refusing to believe it, refusing to believe he’d just been some street urchin Dutch had picked up off the street, that the man had never really cared, that he’d only fed Arthur the kind words and promises he’d wanted to hear, never meaning any of it. 

And now that Arthur had stopped being useful, now that he was nothing but trouble, no longer worth Dutch’s time, he was being thrown away, cast aside like an old horse grown too sick to ride. 

Hosea was gone, so maybe Dutch had simply decided he’d be better off on his own. Or maybe Arthur was the reason Hosea had left in the first place. 

“I’m sorry,” he tried, taking another step, voice rendered to nothing more than a weak whisper. “Dutch, I’m  _ sorry.  _ I didn’t--” 

“I didn’t  _ ask  _ if you were  _ sorry.”  _ Dutch whirled back around to face him, grabbing Arthur’s arm in a crushing grip, stopping the younger man from reaching out. “I told you to leave.  _ Now.”  _

Arthur swallowed, struggling to form words around the sickening terror, to focus on anything other than his heart fighting to break through his chest. 

“I don’t...where am I supposed to--”

“I don’t  _ care.”  _ He hadn’t even realized Dutch had shoved him until he was stumbling back through the dirt, gasping against the new burst of pain, fighting to keep from hunching over or dropping to his knees. “But until you can...what’s wrong with you?” 

Arthur shook his head, moving his arms to cover his sides, squeezing his eyes shut when the small movement only made the pain worse, agonizing fire burning through his veins. 

“Arthur?” 

“I’m ok.” He tried to move away as Dutch stepped closer, knowing an injury on top of everything else would just make it all worse. “I’m ok, I’m--” 

It worsened in a nauseating flash, feeling like someone was twisting a knife into his skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from crying out, the shame and guilt now suffocating. 

He couldn’t keep himself standing anymore, the pain shoving him down, wobbling legs finally collapsing, the ground rushing up to greet him as he fell. 

But there were hands waiting, rushing forward to catch him, Arthur gasping again at the new pressure against his side, Dutch tensing as he did his best to slow Arthur’s descent. 

“What’s wrong? What is it?” 

He was still angry. Arthur could hear it, could hear the disappointment and resentment, the tone only adding to his hurt. 

He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, refusing to let Dutch see the blood, to see just how badly he’d messed up, desperate not to give the man another reason to want him gone. 

But Dutch was stronger, grabbing at Arthur’s wrists and easily prying them apart. His eyes widened when he saw the inside of Arthur’s jacket, the red stain spreading across his shirt. 

“Jesus, Arthur,  _ Jesus.”  _ He released his hold to peel back the cloth, assessing the damage, Arthur no longer able to meet Dutch’s eyes. “Why didn’t you  _ tell  _ me?” 

Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat, terror and pain overwhelming, wanting nothing more to sink into the ground and vanish forever. Maybe now, Dutch would finally put him out of his misery. 

Lip quivering and eyes stinging, he breathed in shaky, frantic gasps, struggling to form words. “I-I’m...I’m sorry, Dutch, I’m  _ sorry,  _ I'm sorry…” 

It was the only thing he could think to say, desperate for Dutch to give him another chance, to not give up on him just yet. There was nowhere else for him to go, no one else to believe in him. 

If he lost his family, he might as well just let the bullet kill him here and now. 

Dutch was pushing him down, slow and gentle, letting him lay back against the dirt. Arthur craned his neck to watch the other man, hoping to see him reconsider, for the anger to fade. 

“You stupid,  _ stupid  _ boy.” 

The words hurt worse than the bullet, and Arthur couldn’t hold back the ragged sob tugging at his chest, turning away to avoid facing the animosity of Dutch’s glare. 

“No, no, no.” There was pressure against the wound, the pain blinding. A hand moved to cup his face, the gesture familiar and grounding, but Arthur hardly felt it. “Stay awake, Arthur. You’re alright, it’s ok.” 

Dutch still sounded on edge, still angry, and the shame only worsened when Arthur knew he’d have to disappoint him once again. All motivation to keep fighting had disappeared, leaving him weak and drained, sinking into the ground, just like he’d wanted. 

“No, Arthur, look at me.” Dutch pushed harder against the wound, making Arthur groan. “Look at me, son!” 

Arthur did his best to obey, still desperate for the forgiveness so far from his reach, barely able to make out anything anymore, the world hazy and gray. 

“S-sorry,” he mumbled, tongue suddenly numb and heavy. “Don’t...don’t make me--” 

“Stop trying to talk. Just stay awake, Arthur. Keep your eyes on me.” 

“Can’t…” He took in another shaky breath, squinting to try and make out just how irritated Dutch was. “Don’t...Dutch, don’t make me leave, I...I-I don't have anywhere else.” 

It was so quiet, if Dutch hadn’t been sitting as close as he was, Arthur wasn’t sure would have been able to hear it. The pathetic plead was almost lost to his own ears. 

“What?” He sounded angry again, and if Arthur had the strength he would have flinched. “No one’s...no, Arthur I just meant--Arthur?” 

His eyes were closing, and Arthur could do nothing to stop it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. 

He wondered if Dutch would care if Arthur never opened his eyes again, if he’d even tell Hosea, if either of them would mourn. 

Arthur’s death would be a relief to them both, an easy way to get rid of him without running the risk of him talking to the law. 

Not that he would have ratted them out, no matter how betrayed he felt. They were still his family, the only one he’d ever had. 

It was ruined because of him. Dutch and Hosea owed him nothing, but Arthur owed the two men everything. And he’d failed. He wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. 

“Arthur!” 

It was just one more order to disobey, another way to disappoint Dutch, to fail the man that had been nothing but kind to him, finally letting the darkness win. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the number of chapters because this took a different turn than what I had planned!

Arthur wasn’t sure how long he’d been awake, staring up at the top of his tent, gradually letting the world filter in around him. 

And then, like the turning of a key, everything came rushing back in a flood of memories and pain, and he shot up from his cot with a breathy wheeze. 

His side still burned, still felt like someone had stuck a knife in between his ribs, but his skin was dry, the blood washed away, a bandage wrapped tightly around his shirtless frame. 

He was in his tent, the surroundings familiar and safe, which meant Dutch hadn’t left him to bleed out. He couldn’t decide if that was a relief or not, if death would have been mercy compared to the pain of being kicked out. 

It didn’t matter. Out there by himself, he wouldn’t last long. He’d have been dead long ago if Dutch and Hosea hadn’t found him when they did. 

Maybe, because of the lingering pain and lethargy, Dutch would allow him to stay a few more days. Before throwing him out into the world he’d been taught to distrust. He didn’t deserve it, but regaining his strength would give him a better chance at survival. 

He wondered if he’d be allowed to take any food with him, or if Dutch would spare any money. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if he was told to leave his horse and guns behind. Everything he had was because of the men he had failed. 

A new wave of fear hit him like a punch to the gut, suddenly noticing how deathly quiet the world outside his tent was, forcing himself to push away from the cot, throwing the blanket aside. 

The burst of adrenaline faded faster than it arrived, the pain even worse than before, the agony sending him crashing to the ground in a trembling heap. 

But the fear was overpowering, dragging him forward, Arthur crawling through the tent’s opening and collapsing in the open air, heart sinking as his nightmare became reality. 

The camp was empty. The Count was nowhere in sight, his horse the only one left at the hitching posts. 

He’d known it was coming, but this was somehow worse than anything he’d imagined. Dutch had abandoned him, saved his life and left him behind to decide his own fate. 

Maybe he’d gone to find Hosea, to tell the older man they didn’t need to carry around a burden anymore, that they could continue the life they’d had before Arthur came along. 

He deserved it, he knew he did. He’d disobeyed and brought back nothing, contributed nothing. He’d never truly been able to do enough, and yet they’d been kind to him anyway. 

Because he’d  _ tried.  _ He’d worked tirelessly to do what they asked, to do better, no matter how undeserving of their praise and attention he was. Because he’d loved them. 

But he wasn’t a child anymore, no longer weak and small, beaten down by the world. He was almost an adult, and Dutch and Hosea couldn’t be expected to be patient forever. They should have thrown him out long ago. 

There was a new pain, worse than the unhealed bullet wound, a sharp agony in his chest, and Arthur realized how difficult it had become to breathe. 

The panic was rendering him helpless, tears spilling from his eyes, because he didn’t know what to do now. He hadn’t been left alone in the world since his father died. He didn’t want to live with that fear and uncertainty again. 

He’d been promised he’d never have to. 

There was the sound of a horse approaching, barely audible over his panicked and ragged gasps for breath. Arthur didn’t move, didn’t look up from the grass, deciding that if it was raiders or lawmen attracted by lingering smoke from the dying campfire, he’d simply lay there and let them kill him. There was nothing left worth fighting for. 

“Arthur!” 

Arthur didn’t bother trying to fight against the sob that overtook him when he heard the voice, vision blurring further when it stole his breath. 

Dutch hadn’t left him. Not yet. There was still time to get him to change his mind, to give Arthur a second chance he didn’t deserve. 

But he knew Dutch, knew that when the man had made up his mind, there was little in the world capable of changing it. Inevitably, Arthur would look Dutch in the eye and be told by the man he called a father that he wasn’t wanted anymore. 

Hands grabbed at his arms, hoisting him onto feet that refused to obey, Dutch dragging him back into the tent. 

“Breathe, Arthur,” Dutch commanded, letting the flap close behind him. “Calm down and breathe. You’re fine, I promise you’re ok.” 

He thought he might be shaking his head, refusing to let Dutch lie to him. It wasn’t ok. Dutch couldn’t expect him to lay there and pretend it was. 

“Come on, Arthur. Go back to sleep.” 

He was being pushed back down to his cot, Dutch’s hand resting on his chest, keeping him still. Not that he had the strength to move again if he wanted to. 

_ “D...Dutch…”  _

“Just breathe,” he said, low and calm. “I’m right here.” 

His hand cupped the back of Arthur’s head, lifting him up. Something cold was pressed against his lips, warm, bitter liquid sliding down his throat. 

“I just went out to get you something for the pain,” Dutch explained, lowering Arthur back to the pillow, hand rested in his hair. “Try and relax.” 

“Dutch, don’t...you can’t, I...y-you don’t understand I’m...I don’t…”

Arthur couldn’t seem to find the words to say it, to tell Dutch that without his family, he had nothing. He  _ was  _ nothing. He’d always assumed the other man already understood, that he cared. 

“You ain’t going anywhere, Arthur.” 

Arthur shook his head, hearing the lie, hearing the sinister tone behind the reassurances. “Dutch, please  _ please--”  _

“Don’t, Arthur. Don’t do this to yourself. We can’t talk until you’re thinking clearly.” 

His face was still soaked, breathing still out of his control, but whatever medicine he’d been given had stolen the last of his already fading strength. 

Arthur tried to call out again, but the pull of the darkness was stronger, dragging him back into restless oblivion. 

  
  


He jolted awake to a new flash of pain, hands automatically reaching for his burning side, only to have someone grab his wrists and guide them back down to the bed. 

“Easy, Arthur.” It was Dutch, still there, voice soft and gentle, keeping the resentment at bay for the time being. “I need to clean this out.” 

Arthur could barely hear him, could hardly feel anything other than the pain pulsing through his body, but he thought he managed a nod, staring up at nothing, pretending things were still ok. 

“You’re lucky,” Dutch said, Arthur’s breath hitching as the bandage was peeled away. “Bullet went right through. You just...you just lost a lot of blood.” 

The guilt was threatening to swallow him all over again. He knew he’d messed up, already seen the extent of Dutch’s fury and the punishment waiting for him. He didn’t need to keep being reminded of what he’d done wrong. 

“S-sorr--” He broke off with a strangled cry as something pressed up against his wound, digging through dried blood. “Dutch--” 

“You’re ok. You’re ok, son. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.” 

Arthur shook his head, still unable to look Dutch in the eye, to focus on anything other than the pain and fear of what would come as soon as he was better.

“Arthur.” There was a hand on his head, and Arthur couldn’t stop himself from flinching. “Look at me.” 

Knowing more disobedience would just make Dutch hate him more, Arthur did as he was told and lowered his gaze to meet the other man’s bloodshot eyes. 

He looked horrible, worn out and exhausted, all because he was stuck picking up after Arthur’s mess, fixing his mistakes. 

But Dutch smiled, small and weak, something Arthur desperately wanted to believe was a reassurance of sympathy. “It was a mistake, Arthur. What the hell are you so scared I’m gonna do to you?” 

He took in a shaky breath, hissing at the pain shrugging brought. “You already...you-you told me to leave and I--” 

The hand in his hair tightened, firm yet careful not to cause any pain, but Arthur almost expected Dutch to break his promise and strike him out of growing frustration. 

_ “No, _ Arthur I didn’t...I just meant…” he trailed off, and the hand in Arthur’s hair moved to cup his jaw. “You’re family. And you made a mistake.  _ One  _ mistake. You really think I’m going to kick you out?”

Arthur swallowed, head feeling heavier and heavier with each passing moment. When he spoke, it was slurred and quiet. “I deserve it.” 

“What?” 

“I...I  _ deserve _ it Dutch, you should just...just…” Everything threatened to come spilling out, shame overshadowing his desperation. “You should’ve just let me die.” 

No matter how loudly his mind screamed to look away, to block out the other man and let himself slip away, Arthur met Dutch’s gaze, taken aback by the heartbreaking sorrow. 

“Arthur…” Dutch stopped, face falling as Arthur’s vision went gray, the dark tugging him back to sleep. “Just...just hang in there. Get some more rest. We’ll...we’ll figure this out.” 

Arthur did his best to ignore the way his chest tightened, the new wave of fear clutching at his throat, Dutch moving back to clean out the wound as everything faded away again. 

  
  


“-- not to wake him up. Poor boy needs the sleep.” 

Dutch was talking the next time Arthur pulled himself back into the world, weak and barely conscious, somehow less aware than before.

“He should be ok,” he continued. “He lost...he lost a lot of blood but I think I was able to...you’ve always been better at that, but I...I tried.” 

“I should have been here.” That was Hosea’s voice, and if he could, Arthur would have thrown himself from his bed and fallen to his knees at the older man’s feet, begged him to forgive him, to take him back. 

“Where’s Bessie?” Both men’s voices were distorted, almost dream-like. “Is she--” 

“She’ll be back. In her own time.” 

Arthur wanted so desperately for the voice to be real, for the affection and concern to be genuine. Maybe he was dying, the bullet’s damage irreparable, and the promise of Arthur’s absence was the only reason for Hosea to return. 

Arthur forced back another sob. Dutch and Hosea needed each other, and if this was the only way to keep them together, Arthur should have disappeared a long time ago. 

Hosea spoke again, quiet words drifting in from outside the tent. “What’re we going to...I never should have left. Not if he’s...thinking like  _ that.”  _

“He...god, Hosea, the things I  _ said  _ to him.”

“It ain’t your--” 

“You weren’t there!” Dutch snapped. “I was  _ furious-  _ of  _ course  _ I was furious! They almost...Jesus, Hosea it was too close. Four years and the damn fool  _ still  _ thinks he needs to...to…” 

“I know.” 

“The things he was  _ saying,”  _ Dutch continued, and Arthur tried to pick through his muddled brain to remember what had been said between the two of them last time they spoke. All he remembered was anger. 

“I thought...I  _ thought  _ things had been getting better. But he’s  _ convinced  _ I’m going to...throw him out or- or  _ hurt  _ him. Over a  _ mistake.”  _

Arthur was still struggling to focus on anything, fighting just to keep his eyes open, working to make sense of the words. But he knew Dutch was angry again, tired and frustrated, all because of him.

And now Hosea knew what had happened. He knew how badly Arthur had failed, how much trouble he had caused, one last good excuse to turn his back and let go of the hopeless burden weighing them down. 

There was a moment of heavy silence before Hosea spoke again, his words more horrible than any beating could have been, the agony worse than a bullet through the heart. 

“Sometimes I think we never should have taken him in.” 

Arthur had to press a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming, burning hot tears streaming down his face as he clutched the blanket in shaky hands. Anything to silence his sobs, to stop himself from seeming weaker than they already thought he was. 

“We gave him a purpose,” Dutch said, only worsening Arthur’s guilt. “He’d be dead if it wasn’t for us.”

“Maybe,” Hosea said, quieter. His voice was fading, and Arthur realized he was walking away, leaving him behind. “But things could have been better.” 

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears stain his pillow, blocking out the rest of the world. He couldn’t hear any more, wouldn’t listen, not when every dark thought he’d kept locked away was coming true right before his eyes. 

This time, he didn’t fight against the darkness, wondering if it was finally coming to take him away for good. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Again, this took a darker turn than I expected. I still love you Tumblesnout. It will probably get worse!


	3. Chapter 3

Another day had come and gone, the setting sun leaving the small camp in quiet darkness, and Dutch wanted nothing more than to storm into Arthur’s tent and beg for forgiveness, to make him see past whatever horrible narrative he was writing for himself. 

The blood loss had made him delusional, as had the stress, pain, and exhaustion he’d been put through. Arthur would be fine, back to his full strength in a few weeks, and then they could work on putting this behind them. 

But he’d seen the look in Arthur’s eyes, seen the terror and sorrow, and knew the boy had believed every word he’d said. Everything he’d been through, and Dutch had never seen Arthur so scared. 

Dutch leaned back against his cot, running a hand over his face, remembering his words, how careless he’d been in his blind fury. 

Because Arthur had almost died. He’d been on the ground, a loaded gun to his head, the men overpowering him never able to understand just how quickly Dutch’s whole world would shatter if they had pulled the trigger, if they had taken the life of a seventeen year old they’d deemed unimportant. 

His anger hadn’t dissipated when the bounty hunters had dropped dead and the boy had struggled to his knees, it had only grown. 

Because Arthur didn’t seem to care that he had been seconds away from a bullet in his skull, that he’d left to put his life in danger without Dutch’s knowledge and he almost hadn’t come back. 

All he’d cared about was apologizing for messing up a job, about getting caught by men that could have hurt Dutch, for not bringing back money to camp. 

And then when Dutch had told him to get lost, it was to get them both away from any potential witnesses, and because he knew he wouldn’t be able to have a talk with Arthur until they'd both calmed themselves down. 

But the teenager had taken the harsh words differently, and if Dutch had bothered to pay attention, he might have seen the look in Arthur’s eyes sooner. It was dangerously similar to the day they’d found him, still scarred by and terrified of his father. 

And the way Arthur had been looking at  _ him, _ hesitant to meet his gaze, tense and waiting for something horrible, Dutch had promised him he’d never have to live that way again.

But he thought he’d had to lie. Arthur had believed he needed to lie to Dutch about being _ injured. _ The boy had been shot, bleeding out, and he’d been more terrified of Dutch’s disappointment than his own pain. 

And if Dutch had even thought to look, to think of anyone but himself for just one second, he would have seen the panic. He could have put the whole thing to an end before it got any worse. 

Arthur’s view of his own importance and worth had always been shaky, always something they had worked carefully around since they’d found him. Dutch should have known better.

But he’d been rendered to semi-conscious begging, desperate for Dutch not to give up on him. And when he believed that had failed, he’d sunken in on himself, convinced he deserved the mistreatment and abandonment. 

He thought he should have been left behind to die. 

But Hosea was back, at least for the time being. Which meant things could only get better. The three of them were family, but Hosea had always been the one to hold them all together. 

Now that the older man had come back to him, they could work on fixing this. Dutch could still make things right. 

He sat up in his cot, pressing his palms against his eyes to keep himself from falling apart right then and there. It had been days, but he wouldn’t go in yet. Not until Arthur was ready, until he could think and hear clearly. 

They would fix this. No matter how long it took, Dutch wouldn’t let them lose their son. 

There were footsteps approaching his tent, too quick to be Arthur’s, but a small part of him kept uselessly hoping. Another time, the boy would have already been up and insisting he was fine, no matter how much blood he’d lost. 

But this wasn’t any other time. And Arthur’s hurt and fatigue wasn’t just from his injury. 

The flap of his tent was pulled open, and as Hosea pushed his way inside, all of the hope Dutch had begun to feel vanished, leaving behind cold and uneasy dread. 

He stood, locking onto the older man’s blatant worry, chest tightening when he hesitated. “What’s wrong?” 

“Dutch,” Hosea started, voice weak and wavering. “Arthur’s gone.” 

  
  
  


They hadn’t camped far from the nearest town, but it was still a relief when the warm glow of lanterns came into view, almost welcoming despite the cold, violent winds tearing at looming trees. 

Arthur couldn’t have been riding for long, but it was a miracle he was able to stay upright on his horse at all with the way his side ached, the gunshot wound threatening to split open with each movement. 

He’d managed to gather his things and make it to his horse undetected, which meant he’d either been extremely lucky, or Dutch and Hosea cared even less than he’d thought. 

As much as a part of him had wanted to say goodbye, to see Hosea’s face one last time, too see any lingering acceptance in Dutch’s gaze, he knew it would have just been more painful in the end. 

He was doing them a favor by leaving on his own, saving them the trouble of throwing him out, of having to pretend for another minute. Dutch and Hosea could get on with their lives, while Arthur’s came to an abrupt halt. 

Maybe they already knew he was gone. They had probably watched him ride away, silently relieved to be rid of him, thoughts of their past, of the promises they had made already fading.

He knew he should have waited a few more days, his head still heavy and thoughts fuzzy, but it had already felt like he had been lying there for years, forced to listen to his whole world come crashing down around him. 

So Arthur had gathered up what little he had- a few cans of food, enough money to get him through a couple days at least, and, with shaky hands, the journal and pen Dutch and Hosea had given to him. Back when they still wanted him. 

He’d retrieved his belt, slipped his gun into its holster, pulled on his jacket and made his way to the hitching posts. The other tents stayed quiet, as they had since the last time he heard the two men speak, and no one had stopped him when he’d rode away. 

He couldn’t even remember the name of the town he’d ridden into, too focused on keeping himself from falling apart, no matter how rapidly his control was faltering, worsening with the distance put in between him and camp. 

Arthur found himself hitching his horse outside the town’s saloon, blocking out the lights and noise coming from the building and pushing his way inside. 

He’d kept most of his drinking in camp, what little Hosea had allowed him to have. Most of his alcohol had come from an overly eager Dutch, and it had always come with supervision. 

But there was no one left to care how much he drank, to worry about him dropping dead in an alleyway behind a bar. 

The bartender raised an eyebrow when Arthur leaned against the bar, working to hide just how much pain he was in. “What do you want, kid?” 

Arthur dug into his satchel and slammed a dollar bill onto the bar, knowing it would be enough to keep the man quiet. He ordered a whiskey, wanting something,  _ anything,  _ to block out his hurt. 

Dutch and Hosea didn’t drink much, slowing even more after Arthur had opened up about his father, but he’d seen it help the men after a particularly long stressful or day. 

It burned when it slid down his throat, stronger than what he was used to, the sensation making him cough. He tried to ignore the pang in his heart when he remembered Dutch and Hosea at his side while he’d had his first drink, laughing when he screwed up his face, revolted at the bitter flavor. 

But they’d been proud of him, for some unknown reason Arthur couldn’t even begin to understand. They’d been proud of him for doing nothing, kind to him when he offered  _ nothing.  _

But good things always came to an end. The people he loved would always leave eventually. He’d learned that the day his mother had died, learned he was worthless the moment his father took control of his life. 

His hands began to tremble after his second drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop, ordering two more glasses in a desperate attempt to shut out the memories bubbling to the surface. 

His satchel seemed to grow lighter and lighter, using up the money meant for a new life on alcohol that would only make him sick. 

But he didn’t care. Because he didn’t  _ want  _ a new life. There was nothing for him, nothing he could take alone. Dutch was right, he’d be dead if it weren’t for the other men. And a world this cruel wasn’t worth living in if he didn’t have his family. 

“You wanna slow down there?” The bartender asked, no doubt more concerned for his business than Arthur’s health. “You look a little young to be--” 

“I’m  _ fine.”  _ Arthur wasn’t even sure how much he’d had to drink, but he knew it was more than even Dutch would have been comfortable letting him have. His head was pounding, knives dancing along his spine, the whole bar swaying dangerously. “Just...just give me another.  _ Please.” _

The bartender shrugged, taking the money and pouring another glass. “Fine. Kill yourself for all I care.” 

The glass was placed in front of him, Arthur clenching his jaw when he could barely wrap his hand around the drink, fingers shaky and unsteady, spasming against his will. He had to squint to see straight, fighting to get a grip, to take back any sort of control. 

When he finally managed to bring the glass to his lips and swallow, the drink was barely given a second to sit in his stomach before he gagged, everything he drank threatening to come right back up again. 

“And that’s why you don’t try and drink yourself to death,” the bartender drawled, taking the glass as Arthur pushed himself away. “Get out of here, kid. Before you make a mess all over my floor.”

Arthur barely heard him, stumbling forward to try and find an exit, to find any way out of the suddenly stuffy and overcrowded bar, his head feeling like it was being split open with a knife. 

And then something heavy slammed into him, sending him scrambling back, the impact quickly followed by a yell Arthur couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears. 

Someone grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward, furious words digging painfully into his scrambled mind.

“You hearing me, you drunk fool? I said watch where you’re going!” 

The booming man in his face towered over him, several feet taller, and probably able to handle his alcohol much better. Arthur tried to pull away, only for the grip to be tightened, the man shaking him ruthlessly. 

“You trying to walk away?” the man demanded, scowling when Arthur turned his head away, stomach roiling dangerously. “I’m  _ talking  _ to you, boy.” 

The hands on his collar loosened, and Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d been shoved until he hit the ground, his healing wound screaming at the sudden abuse. 

His eyes stung at the sudden reminder of Dutch’s anger, how he’d been roughly shoved away when he’d tried to reach out, to make the man hear him.

“We don’t need people like you,” the man continued, moving to stand over him. “This town’s got no use for unwanted kids. Go back to the streets where you belong.”

He raised a fist and Arthur flinched, memories of years on the streets, of brutal treatment and harsh words flooding back to his drunken mind. 

But the blow never came, a second man moving to stand beside the first, grabbing his raised arm. 

“Don’t even bother,” he said, smirking down at Arthur. “He ain’t worth it. And he’s too drunk to steal anything.” 

There was a beat of silence, Arthur still tense and waiting for a kick or punch. The man eventually reached forward and grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him forward, ignoring the distressed moan. 

The man scoffed when Arthur gagged again, chuckling as he yanked the boy to his feet. “Can’t even handle a few drinks, huh?” 

Arthur couldn’t respond, the air suddenly growing colder as the back door was kicked open, the man pulling him outside. 

“Get the hell out of here, you damn street rat.” 

He was thrown forward, landing hard in the mud, crying out when the pain in his side worsened in a flash. The saloon door slammed shut, leaving him alone in darkness. 

Arthur wasn’t even given time to try and make it to his knees before the nausea grew overwhelming, and he threw up everything he had in his stomach onto the mud, watching the liquid seep into the ground. 

He rolled over onto his back, the spell of heaving only making the pain worse, rendering him even more disoriented than before. 

Hosea had barely approved when he would have  _ one  _ drink, he could only imagine how furious the man would be if he saw him now. Maybe it was for the best they’d already given up on him. 

Arthur groaned, wrapping his arms around himself as he struggled to move to his knees, horrible waves of agony rocking through his entire body, the world refusing to cease its swaying. 

He realized suddenly how badly he was shaking, how loudly the pounding in his head had gotten, heart beating ruthlessly in his ears, and he wondered if the alcohol would kill him, leaving him in an alleyway achingly similar to the ones he’d been forced to make his home for so many years. 

He couldn’t live that way again. He couldn’t live with the fear of being alone, of being starved and beaten, of having no one to care if he lived another day, or died scared, alone and hurting. 

His eyes flew open, realizing that the arm wrapped around his middle had become wet and sticky, white-hot pain pulsing in his side. 

Arthur slowly pulled away, wincing as he peeled back his shirt, the cloth now stained a deep red. He’d reopened his wound, warm blood dripping down his skin. 

He was in no place to patch himself up, not with the way his hands were shaking and the dark alleyway kept spinning. The pain would just grow worse, and if he couldn’t do anything, he’d end up bleeding out.

Because there was no one left to help him, to care, to even think about him. And it was his fault. He’d ruined the one thing he’d cared about in the world, driven away the people he’d let himself love. 

He moved to lean against the wall, hunched over, trying in vain to control the pain, suddenly aware of the weight against his belt. 

He’d die anyway. He’d spent most of his money on alcohol that might still kill him, barely able to survive one night, reduced to nothing but a useless mess at just the thought of losing his family. 

It took too long to grab the handle of his gun, shaking so badly he almost couldn’t move his fingers, holding the weapon with both hands as he pulled it from the holster. 

He couldn’t live like an unwanted street rat again, beaten down and hated by a world he didn’t belong in. Not after years of being told he was better than the child he’d been raised as, that he deserved better. 

It took two tries to pull back the hammer, his hands seeming to fight against muddled commands, still trembling as he raised the gun, staring down the barrel of his own weapon. 

A part of him wondered if it was the whiskey and blood loss obscuring his judgment and darkening his thoughts, that if his mind was clearer he might have been able to work something out, to see light at the end of the tunnel. 

But the rest of him didn’t care, terrified of how he would feel when he was sober, when the full weight of reality came crashing down when the sun rose. 

He slid the gun under his chin, wincing at the frigid metal against his skin. The alleyway was still spinning, making the pounding in his head worse, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to forget his pain, fingers searching to curl around the trigger. 

He thought he heard someone yell, probably some drunk from inside the bar, and he elected to ignore it, to continue to block everything out. It was nearly impossible to understand anything through his own panicked breathing. 

And then he felt someone grab his wrist tight enough to bruise, two hands grasping his arms to try and pry the gun away from his face, ignoring Arthur’s sounds of panic. 

Fear mixed with anger, and Arthur fought against the grip, kicking out to try and deter his attacker. Alone and drunk in an alley, a gun held to his own head, and men still felt the need to beat him down even further, to go out of their way to try and hurt him. 

It was the way he had lived for too many years, and he refused to live that way for one more day. 

He thrashed and kicked, crying out as two strong arms wrapped around him, holding him still and trying to keep the gun from his face. 

“Let me go!” His voice was small and broken, pathetic to his own ears. “Y-you- you can take whatever you want after just- just let me--” 

The man ignored him, tightening his hold, voice ripping through Arthur’s aching head. “Take the gun! Jesus, hurry the hell up and get the gun away from him!” 

There was a second set of hands on his own, grabbing the handle of the weapon, relentlessly trying to yank the gun from his grip, to pry his fingers away. 

“Let  _ go,”  _ the voice demanded, familiar despite the cloud around his mind. “Let go, Arthur, let go of the goddamn gun!” 

The men knew him. It was just one last cruel trick his brain was playing on him, one last form of torture before it came to an end. 

_ “Arthur!”  _

He gave one last pull on the gun, fingers finding metal as he kept fighting, and he felt both men freeze. 

A gunshot rang out, loud and hollow, echoing through the alley just as the gun was freed from his grip. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a happy one shot.   
> Happy Fourth of July to my American readers! Thank you all for reading and commenting!


	4. Chapter 4

Hosea barely even acknowledged that he had finally ripped the gun from Arthur’s hand, no longer thinking when he tossed it aside, letting it scatter across the muddy ground. 

All he heard was the gunshot, and all he saw was Arthur, all fight vanishing as he fell limp and unresponsive, eyes still closed, hands falling to his sides when the older man released his hold. 

“No, Arthur,  _ no.”  _

Hosea reached forward to hold Arthur’s face, cradling his jaw in his hands, frantically searching for any sign of life. When there was still no response, he changed course and peeled back the boy’s jacket, searching for injuries. 

He found blood almost immediately, though not nearly enough to be from the bullet. He’d reopened his old wound, then. God only knew what had happened before they’d got there. 

The bullet had missed him. Arthur’s chest rose and fell, breathing small and shaky, but he was alive. They could deal with the rest of it later, the fact that he reeked of alcohol, that he’d tried to…

Hosea’s head snapped up to Dutch, the other man having planted himself at Arthur’s side, keeping him as still as possible, scanning for any sign of blood. 

“Did you get hit?” 

“Almost.  _ Jesus.”  _ Dutch glanced over his shoulder, Hosea following to the bullet lodged deep into the brick wall, just inches from where the younger man’s head had been. 

Arthur suddenly groaned, shivering violently against the wall, whimpering quietly in his sleep. He was too pale, and Hosea’s worry only grew when he saw the dark stain of vomit blended into the mud.

“Oh, Arthur.” Hosea carefully pulled him away from the wall, moving to check his dangerously sluggish pulse. “God...we’re gonna help you, son. I promise we’re going to help you.” 

“Somebody definitely heard that shot,” Dutch said, taking one of Arthur’s arms to help Hosea lift him. “Let’s get him out of here.” 

Carrying Arthur out of the alley and into the street was easier than it should have been. Dutch had briefly mentioned a lack of money or supplies since Hosea had left, which meant little to no food. And that was before a gunshot had rendered him almost immobile for two days. 

The horses were waiting right where they’d left them, both animals looking just as uneasy as Hosea felt, shifting when Arthur was brought forward. 

It was a miracle they had found him at all, nearly passing right by the alleyway in their rush to speak to the local bartender for any kind of lead. 

And then Hosea had heard the small, broken breathing from behind the crowded saloon, grabbed Dutch’s sleeve and pulled him around the corner. 

Arthur had been pressed up against the back wall, knees held up to his chest, looking just as lost and scared as the day they had found him. 

The boy’s eyes had been screwed shut, breaths coming in ragged, frantic hiccups, hands wrapped unsteadily around the gun held to his own head. 

Hosea had never been so terrified in his entire life. All the close calls, near fatal wounds, jobs gone wrong, and Hosea had never felt that kind of fear, the horror of knowing that they could be too late, that taking just one second too long would mean Arthur putting a bullet in his own skull with his own gun. 

All because of something he could have prevented if he’d just tried a little harder. 

But he was still alive, albeit dangerously drunk and worryingly unresponsive, now empty hands still shaking where they had held his own weapon just moments before. 

He wanted so desperately to believe they could still fix things, but it had been his and Dutch’s words to finally drive him over the edge. Because of them, Arthur felt he needed to prove himself. Because they’d saved him from the life he’d thought he would have to return to. 

“Come on,” Dutch said, already reaching for his saddle. “Help me get him up here.”

Hosea did as he was told, he and Dutch working carefully to secure Arthur against Dutch’s chest, the younger man wrapping one arm around the boy’s chest to keep him stable. 

“You know,” Hosea started, fighting to get the words out around his tightening throat, wanting nothing more than for Dutch to disregard them. “He’s strong and he’s- he’s still young. There’s lots of people that could take him.” 

“What?” 

“I’m just saying...there’s places we can drop him off. He won’t wake up for a while and I don’t think he recognized us. We can still find him somewhere safe.” 

He saw Dutch tighten his hold on Arthur, turning to stare at Hosea with cold disbelief, slowly morphing into righteous anger. 

“Oh, so that’s it, huh?” he spat, holding Arthur against protectively his chest like a wounded child. “So...so what, he’s not perfect anymore? Ain’t good enough for you? Is that it?” 

“Jesus, no--” 

“You want to get  _ rid _ of him just because he’s...because he tried to- to...It’s still  _ Arthur,  _ Hosea. Don’t you dare blame him for something that our goddamn fault!” 

“I’m not,” Hosea shot back, unable to bring malice to his voice. “He’s...what if we’re just making it worse? We’re doing our best but...maybe he would have been safer working on a ranch somewhere.” 

“Or dead on the street?” 

Hosea shook his head. “You know that’s not what I meant. But this happened because of  _ us.”  _

“This happened,” Dutch said. “Because he was scared and hurt and  _ I _ messed up. I messed up, Hosea, and you weren’t here to piece things back together. But you’re back now.” 

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.” 

“Look what he did.” Dutch’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “Because he thought he wasn’t...he wasn’t  _ good  _ enough. That we didn’t  _ want _ him or- or he didn’t  _ matter.” _

“Dutch--”

“How do you think he’ll feel if we really do leave him behind?” 

Hosea’s eyes wandered to the unconscious boy tucked in between Dutch’s chest and the horse, looking pained and restless despite the stillness in his face. 

Arthur had been scared, alone, and hopeless, leaving because he thought he’d be kicked out anyway, driven to the edge because he thought he wasn’t wanted anymore. Like he’d just been some orphan his family had never really cared about. 

He thought he’d have to live that way again. He’d been terrified of being back on the street, alone and ignored, struggling to make it through one more day. 

“I don’t want to lose him.” He had to look away, back up to Dutch, fighting to keep from breaking down. “I love him. I love him, Dutch, you know that. He’s like a son to me.” 

“And you know I do too. Which is why we’re going to fix this. We won’t give up on him, no matter what happens. He needs to know that.” 

Hosea nodded, taking a shaky breath as he mounted his own horse, eyes going everywhere except Arthur. Looking at the boy would just remind him how close they’d been to losing him forever. 

“Come on,” Dutch said, grabbing the reins and starting forward. “Let’s go home.” 

  
  


They put Arthur down in Hosea’s cot this time, away from the tent where he had spent too much time alone. Hosea didn’t plan on letting Arthur leave his sight. Not until he was awake and on the road to recovering. 

They dealt with the reopened wound as quickly as they could, cleaning and wiping the blood away. Arthur stirred when they stitched up the bright red skin, but didn’t wake. 

Dutch placed a bucket at the end of the bed, both men all too aware of how sick Arthur would feel when he woke up. There was no telling how much he’d had to drink, but he’d barely been able to handle  _ one  _ beer the few times he’d been offered. 

Hosea sat himself in a chair at Arthur’s side, running his fingers through the boy’s hair, Dutch pulling up a stool at the end of the bed, the tent falling into grim silence. 

“What are we going to do?” he asked, and the younger man raised his head. “If...when he wakes up, what do we even say?”

Dutch shook his head. “I don’t know. Everything we should have said a lot sooner, I guess. We’ll fix this, Hosea. It’ll be ok.” 

Hosea didn’t get a chance to reply, Arthur’s breathing suddenly picking up. His eyes fluttered open, brow pinched in confusion and pain, hands instinctively moving to his side. 

“Arthur?” Hosea stilled his movements, lowering his hand to cup Arthur’s cheek. “Son? You with us?” 

Arthur’s only response was a quiet groan, suddenly working to push himself up, eyes widening as he shoved his blankets away. 

Hosea turned to Dutch, but the other man was already moving to grab the bucket, thrusting it under Arthur’s chin just as he began to convulse. 

The vomiting seemed to stretch on forever, Arthur barely given time to take a breath in between the heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the attack, involuntarily tears streaming down his face. 

Dutch and Hoses planted themselves close at his sides, Hosea rubbing his back and shoulders, anything to try and lessen his discomfort, but he wasn’t even sure the boy was registering their presence.

Arthur’s trembling had picked up again, one hand clutched tightly in the blanket, the other held tight in Dutch’s grip. 

When it finally subsided, Arthur was left a shaky mess on the edge of his bed, wheezing and gasping, spitting one last time into the bucket before collapsing back against this cot, Dutch reluctantly releasing him. 

“Arthur?” Hosea called softly, receiving nothing but a weak moan as he turned back to the other man. “Can you...could you get him some medicine? Something for the nausea?” 

Dutch met his eyes, briefly looking like he was about to argue. But he seemed to understand, gently squeezing Arthur’s hand one more time before slipping out of the tent.

Hosea sighed as soon as the flap closed, running a hand through his hair, anxiety and sorrow bubbling up inside of him, threatening to spill over now that the tent was quiet. 

“Arthur?” he asked again, pushing himself from the floor to get a better view. Arthur didn’t move, didn’t make any noise, curled up and silent, eyes closed. 

Hosea eased himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle or wake Arthur as he scooted back, making sure to give the boy his space. He didn’t want him to panic the next time he awoke. 

Left alone, quiet breathing the only surrounding noise, Hosea finally let everything sink in, adrenaline fading fast. His chest suddenly felt tight, eyes stinging as he blinked rapidly, hunching over to rest his head in his hands. 

Arthur had tried to kill himself. 

He’d nearly drank himself to death, only to collapse alone in a filthy alleyway, holding his own gun to his own damn head while he struggled to even stay awake. 

And when Dutch and Hosea had rushed to his side, doing everything they could to pull the gun away and get him to calm down, he’d fought against the rescue. 

Arthur had thought he was being attacked, to him, the scenario more likely than someone coming to save him. He’d truly believed his family wouldn’t care. 

Hosea hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until he felt the tears spill through his fingers, his face stinging and heart pounding as it became increasingly difficult to take a proper breath. 

“Hosea?” 

The voice was small, weak and timid but enough to capture Hosea’s attention, head shooting up to meet Arthur’s weary, clouded eyes watching him nervously. 

“Hey.” Hosea’s own voice was raw and unsteady, the tears refusing to stop falling. “You feeling any better?” 

Arthur didn’t seem inclined to answer the question, didn’t even seem to hear it at all. He just grew more and more worried each time he blinked, eyes becoming a little more focused. 

“Hosea,” he said again, suddenly unable to meet the older man’s gaze. “D-do you...do you still want me to leave?” 

“What?” Hosea scooted closer, hands hovering, trying to figure out what to do, how to help. “No. No, Arthur, I--” 

“I...I can still go. I-if you..if you want to get rid of me you don’t have to- I...I can--” 

“Oh, no, Arthur  _ god  _ no.” Hosea finally closed the distance between them, reaching out to touch the boy’s shoulder. “Come here.” 

Arthur still looked uncertain, like he thought there was some kind of twisted punishment coming, but gradually gave in and wrapped his arms around Hosea, still shivering, head rested in the older man’s lap. 

“I...I tried to go,” Arthur said, barely lucid, tightening his hold as he spoke. “I _tried but_ I- I couldn’t...Hosea I couldn’t--” 

“It’s  _ ok.” _ It wasn’t, not yet, but this was the first step in making it better. “I’ve got you. I promise I’ve got you. Nobody's going anywhere, I swear.” 

“Y-you said...you and Dutch, you were--” 

“No, Arthur.” Now wasn’t the time for a serious discussion, not when Arthur could barely understand the words Hosea was saying, but this was the least he could do. “We aren’t angry we’re...we’re worried. We’re just worried about you, son.” 

Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat, coming out in short, hiccuping sobs, Hosea unable to stop himself from matching them, the tent blurring as he let go of his control, allowing himself to cry. 

“I-I’m...I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Hosea assured. “I’m right here, it’ll be ok. We’ll fix this. I know you feel awful right now, but we’ll be right here with you. It’ll all get better when you wake up.” 

Arthur just held him tighter, body convulsing with sobs, Hosea doing everything he could to calm him down. He went back to running his fingers through the boy’s hair, shushing him gently, other hand moving to rub circles along his back. 

“I- I love...I love…” 

“I love you too, Arthur,” Hosea said, hearing the words he was trying to say, hearing the fear of rejection. “You’re my son. Nothing’s changed, and nothing ever will.” 

“Hosea…” 

He held his breath and waited while Arthur paused, hoping for the best, for some kind of recognition or acceptance in his words. 

But Arthur’s voice held only pain and confusion, barely audible, muffled by Hosea’s shirt. “It...it hurts, Hosea, it  _ hurts.”  _

He sighed, at a loss of how to help, only able to hope some of his words stuck with Arthur when he was sober. He felt someone watching, raising his head to see Dutch at the tent’s entrance, grim but hopeful, his own eyes shimmering with tears. 

“I know,” he said, turning back to the boy in his lap. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. It’ll be ok soon. We won’t leave you.” 

Arthur said nothing else, breathing slowing as it finally evened out, Hosea closing his own eyes as Dutch set down the unopened bottle of medicine and settled into the chair, watching as the world finally let their boy rest. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Sorry for the wait, Kaspooky is slowing me down <3


	5. Chapter 5

There wasn’t much talking the next few days. 

It was impossible to tell just how much Arthur remembered, but Dutch couldn’t help but hope the alcohol had blocked out most of the horrible night. 

His hangover had been one of the worst Dutch had seen, Arthur having woken them up with a strangled groan, grabbing at his pounding head, flinching at any light that made its way into the tent. 

Dutch and Hosea had done all they could, making sure he drank water, staying with him through the seemingly endless vomiting, carefully stripping away his sweat-soaked clothes. 

Arthur barely spoke throughout it, only muttered quiet thanks, spitting into the bucket placed under his chin, allowing Dutch to guide him back to bed. 

“You’ll feel better soon enough,” he assured, trying not to show the boy just how terrified the attacks of dry heaves were making him. Arthur was too young to drink that much alcohol, and he made a silent promise to find whoever had let him. “Just hang in there, son. You’ve got us real worried.” 

Arthur groaned again, allowing himself to be led back down to his cot, Dutch keeping a hand cupped around the back of his head as he lowered him back down, draping the blanket over his chest. 

“M’ sorry.” 

Any emerging hope Dutch had begun to feel faded at the heartbroken words, and over his shoulder, he saw Hosea’s face fall. 

“Don’t be...god, don’t be sorry, Arthur. Just hold on for us. Alright?” 

There was no response, Arthur’s eyes slipping shut as fell back into oblivion, finally able to catch up on the sleep he so desperately needed. 

“He’ll be ok.” Hosea was already sinking back into his chair, running a shaky hand through his hair. The older man had refused to leave Arthur’s side since they’d brought him back home. “He just needs time.” 

They’d fallen into an uneasy silence after that, stuck in a quiet, gray limbo as they waited, Dutch drifting in and out of sleep as both the day and night came to an end. 

Arthur had woken up at dawn the next morning, struggling to sit up and stumble out of his cot, begrudgingly letting Dutch and Hosea guide him outside to the campfire.

“How’re you feeling?” Dutch asked, a bit too eagerly, ignoring the wary look Hosea shot him. 

Arthur shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself as the fire sparked to life, chasing away the frigid morning air. He shuddered, hair falling into his eyes, staring straight ahead. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?” Dutch repeated, lowering to a crouch beside him. “You sure?” 

Arthur shrugged again. “Just a headache.”

“We can get you something to--” 

“Dutch,” Hosea warned, hovering at the edge of the campfire. “Let him rest.” 

Dutch relented, noting the tension in Arthur’s shoulders, the two older men giving him his space, always keeping him in sight. Even if Arthur didn’t remember what happened, Dutch knew the two of them would never be able to unsee what they’d found the night before. 

The rest of the day was spent relatively silent, Arthur reminding Dutch painfully of a kicked puppy, moving around like he was a prisoner in an enemy camp, waiting for some kind of unspoken punishment. 

Dutch and Hosea checked in with him as often as they dared, careful not to crowd him, still not quite sure how to proceed, how to even begin fixing things. 

“You need to talk to him.” 

Dutch’s head snapped up, Hosea’s voice breaking through the heavy silence, too quiet for Arthur to hear from his spot by the dying fire. 

“You sure?” 

“He’s scared, Dutch.” He kept himself from glancing over at the boy, no doubt still silently curled in on himself, waiting for beration that would never come. “He needs to know he’s still important. And he needs to hear it from you.” 

Dutch had always prided himself on his silver tongue, his easy way with words. It was what had kept him alive this long, more so than his skill with a gun, and it was what had gotten him the family he loved so much in the first place. 

But as determined as he was to mend his relationship, to put the pieces of the small family back together, the thought of beginning still terrified him. It had been his fault, his words that had started things. It would be too easy to make things worse. 

“Things can’t get better until you make an effort,” Hosea said, no familiar comfort in his tone. “He looks up to you. If you love him like a son,  _ show  _ him.” 

He loved Arthur. Nothing could ever be worse than seeing what he’d been reduced to the night before, preferring death over the life Dutch had promised the boy he would never have to live again. 

Lyle Morgan had been no father to his son. Nothing but abusive and manipulative, keeping Arthur around only if he was useful and obedient. 

Arthur had promised Dutch loyalty, and Dutch had promised him safety and content. He’d promised him a family. Arthur had always done more than could ever be expected, but he didn’t need to be useful to be wanted. 

Arthur was his son. That hadn’t changed, and it never would. Arthur was just the last to realize that. 

With a small nod, Dutch stood from the table by his tent, stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way to the log where Arthur had planted himself.

It might have just been his overactive imagination, but Dutch could have sworn he saw Arthur tense up when the older man approached, stopping a few paces away. 

“Mind if I sit down?” 

Arthur said nothing, eyes glued to his hands, the small fire illuminating his pale face as the sun began its descent through the darkening sky, disappearing behind the swaying treeline. But he nodded, and Dutch lowered himself to sit beside him.

“You feeling better?” 

Arthur shrugged, the movement almost too small to see. “I guess so.”

They were quickly dunked in uncertain silence, Dutch plagued with the countless ways the conversation could go wrong, struggling to form the right words to put things back together. 

“Do you remember?” It wasn’t what he’d planned on saying, and he internally cringed at his own careless choice of words. 

But there was no taking it back now, and he carefully watched Arthur’s face for any reaction, frowning when the boy moved to quickly wipe at his eyes, tilting his head to avoid Dutch’s gaze. 

“Yeah,” he said, too quiet, ashamed. “Yeah, I...I remember it.” 

Neither needed to clarify what the other meant. Dutch knew Arthur heard his unspoken words, knew it went both ways. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat before quickly continuing, “That you...that you thought you had to do that.”

His only response was another shrug, Arthur wringing his hands as he stared at the fire, stiff and silent. Dutch took a breath, mind racing, trying in vain to still his shaking hands. 

“Tell me why.” 

At the request, Arthur finally moved his head to look up, red, watery eyes meeting Dutch’s own. The exhausted, crestfallen look was enough to break what was left of Dutch’s heart. 

“I didn’t want to go back,” he explained, pausing to bite his quivering lip. “I...I couldn’t do it, Dutch. Being- being alone and...and treated like...like  _ nothing.  _ I couldn’t do it again. Not after what you did for me.” 

“You don’t have to,” Dutch said. “Never again, Arthur. Didn’t I tell you that?” 

Arthur broke away from the gaze, back to watching the fire. “I just...I just figured once I was strong enough, you would--”

“Look at me, son.” 

Arthur obeyed, Dutch back to his strong, commanding self, despite the crushing weight he felt on his chest, squeezing, the ache in his heart threatening to suffocate him. 

Dutch reached out to gently cup Arthur’s face, heart sinking at the way the boy visibly fought against flinching, eyes still wary, wanting so desperately to trust. 

“You ain’t going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it, do you understand me? Nobody is kicking you out. We don’t turn our backs on family.” 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, the two words Dutch had most been dreading. “I just...you were so angry and I--” 

“You did nothing wrong.” Dutch dropped his hands, moving to hold Arthur’s own. “I shouldn’t have...I was just scared. I don’t want to lose you, son. Especially not to something I could have protected you from.” 

“But I...I didn’t do  _ enough.”  _ Arthur’s sorrow was slowly morphing to frustration, his hold tightening in Dutch’s hands. “Everything you and- and Hosea have done for me and I still can’t--” 

“You’ve done more than anyone could expect,” Dutch promised. “You work so damn hard, and you’re always at my side. You stay strong for me, son. And I’m so proud of you. The only person who thinks you don’t do enough is  _ you,  _ Arthur.” 

Arthur blinked, like he didn’t quite believe the words were genuine. “But I’m--” 

“You messed up,” Dutch said, squeezing Arthur’s hand. “So what? We all do sometimes, and you learned your lesson. Hosea and I will  _ never _ hold a mistake against you. You have my word. Ok?” 

Arthur nodded, pulling one hand away to wipe at the stray tear making its way down his jaw. “I’m- I’m sorry, Dutch I just--” 

“And stop apologizing. The only person who needs to be sorry is me. For making you think you had anything to worry about.” 

Arthur swallowed, breathing too quick and uneven. “You don’t--” 

“You’re family, Arthur. You’re my son. Nothing will ever change that.”

Something in Arthur’s eyes finally seemed to clear, and his nod seemed a little less forced, some of the tension finally seeping from his shoulders. 

“Ok,” he said, wiping at his face again. “Thank you.” 

They were still far from done, Dutch still able to hear some of the lingering hesitation and fear in Arthur’s voice, his own self-doubt and worry hanging over him like a cloud. 

“What you tried to do,” Dutch started, nearly faltering at the panic in Arthur's eyes. “Last night when you...if- if you ever...you talk to me, son. Alright? Me or Hosea. I meant what I said. I won’t lose you.” 

Arthur didn’t answer, his breath hitching in his throat, released in a shuddering sob as his hands curled into fists. He couldn’t fight against the tears anymore, streaming down his face and dripping onto his clothes, shoulders shaking as he finally gave in. 

“I’ve got you, Arthur.” Dutch moved to wrap an arm around the boy, pulling him against his chest, running a hand through his hair. “I’m right here. It’ll be ok. I promise, we’ll make things ok.” 

Arthur nodded against him, still overcome with sobs, just as nearing footsteps stopped in front of the campfire, Dutch looking over his shoulder to meet Hosea’s worried eyes. 

“Isn’t that right?” 

Hosea nodded, his own face wet with tears, unsure but beyond hopeful. “Of course. Whatever you need from us.” 

He crouched beside the logs, offering a sad smile when Arthur turned to meet his eyes, the boy still clinging to Dutch’s sleeves as Hosea took a breath before speaking. 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur.” 

It took a moment, Dutch working to help Arthur untangle himself, but he eventually fell still with his arms around Hosea, both muttering indecipherable promises, lost to the crackling of the fire. 

It wasn’t something that could be fixed overnight. Dutch wasn’t about to fool himself or his family into thinking it was. Arthur deserved better than that. 

But when the sun had set and dinner was cooking over the revived fire, it had been the first time in too long that Dutch had seen Arthur smile. A genuine, relaxed smile as the three of them huddled together, talking and laughing softly. 

They were content, and they were safe. His family was together again, and for the time being that was all he needed. It wasn’t perfect, just their own way of making things ok again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I might to a separate epilogue or connect this to another young Arthur story, but I have a lot of stories to work on so I decided to end this short and sweet.   
> Thank you for reading and commenting! You're all awesome!

**Author's Note:**

> For TumbleSnout, because they're awesome and I miss them!   
> Thank you all for continuing to read and comment on my stories, you all are amazing!


End file.
